But for once even that promise failed to stir Dick Linforth into enthusiasm.

“I will do my best,” he said quietly; and with that Ralston left him.

Linforth sat down in his chair and once more took out the crumpled letter.  He had walked with the Gods of late, like one immune from earthly troubles.  But his bad hour had been awaiting him.  The letter was signed Violet.  He read it through again, and this was what he read: 

“This is the most difficult letter I have ever written.  For I don’t feel that I can make you understand at all just how things are.  But somehow or other I do feel that this is going to hurt you frightfully, and, oh, Dick, do forgive me.  But if it will console or help at all, know this,” and the words were underlined—­as indeed were many words in Violet Oliver’s letters—­“that I never was good enough for you and you are well rid of me.  I told you what I was, didn’t I, Dick?—­a foolish lover of beautiful things.  I tried to tell you the whole truth that last evening in the garden at Peshawur, but you wouldn’t let me, Dick.  And I must tell you now.  I never sent the pearl necklace back, Dick, although I told you that I did.  I meant to send it back the night when I parted from the Prince.  I packed it up and put it ready.  But—­oh, Dick, how can I tell you?—­I had had an imitation one made just like it for safety, and in the night I got up and changed them.  I couldn’t part with it—­I sent back the false one.  Now you know me, Dick!  But even now perhaps you don’t.  You remember the night in Peshawur, the terrible night?  Mr. Ralston wondered why, after complaining that my window was unbolted, I unbolted it myself.  Let me tell you, Dick!  Mr. Ralston said that ‘theft’ was the explanation.  Well, after I tried to tell you in the garden and you would not listen, I thought of what he had said.  I thought it would be such an easy way out of it, if the thief should come in when I was asleep and steal the necklace and go away again before I woke up.  I don’t know how I brought myself to do it.  It was you, Dick!  I had just left you, I was full of thoughts of you.  So I slipped back the bolt myself.  But you see, Dick, what I am.  Although I wanted to send that necklace back, I couldn’t, I simply couldn’t, and it’s the same with other things.  I would be very, very glad to know that I could be happy with you, dear, and live your life.  But I know that I couldn’t, that it wouldn’t last, that I should be longing for other things, foolish things and vanities.  Again, Dick, you are well rid of a silly vain woman, and I wish you all happiness in that riddance.  I never would have made you a good wife.  Nor will I make any man a good wife.  I have not the sense of a dog.  I know it, too!  That’s the sad part of it all, Dick.  Forgive me, and thanks, a thousand thanks, for the honour you ever did me in wanting me at all.”  Then followed—­it seemed to Linforth—­a cry.  “Won’t you forgive me, dear, dear Dick!” and after these words her name, “Violet.”